He drove twenty yards farther and then, blocked by the grid of automobiles in front of him, stopped. "Get out."

He and Cate opened their doors and ran across the three lanes of traffic. Reaching the sidewalk, Gavallan glanced behind him. "Holy shit."

Heads were popping out of several of the cars stuck in traffic ahead of them. Two men appeared from a yellow Fiat. Another two from a white Simca. A lone man from a Mercedes. All left their vehicles and began threading through the gridlock toward them. Swallowing hard, Gavallan looked back. The goons from the Chaika were out too, rushing through the intersection as if fording a stream, brandishing pistols for cars to stop.

"Move! Move! Move!" Gavallan yelled.

Cate led the way, running up the sidewalk to the first side street and dashing right. Fifty yards up she crossed the pavement, took another left, then ducked into an alley that ran between two apartment buildings. Her strides were long, her arms pumping, her eyes aimed to the fore. Gavallan stayed at her heel, daring a glance behind them every ten or fifteen steps. He counted seven men running after them. They looked to be bunched in groups: three a hundred yards back, another three seventy yards away, and a lone man fifty yards and closing.

Coming to the end of the alley, Cate darted to the right. They were confronted by two crumbling roads that led at odd angles toward low, decrepit wooden warehouses set in fields of uncut grass. Cate continued to the right. They passed through the field, Gavallan stumbling in a pothole and catching sight of the lone runner, nearer now, a gun in his right hand.

"We've got to get off the road," he panted, catching up to Cate. "There's one guy back there we're not going to shake."

Cate nodded, her lips drawn taut. At the far side of the warehouse, they came to another street. Apartments on both sides. All of them newer, almost modern- the prefab monstrosities the press used to mock: paper-thin walls, plumbing that leaked from the ceiling like rain, air currents that rushed between the crevices that separated one unit from the other. They found another alley. Cate ducked left and after ten steps halted.

"What?" asked Gavallan.

"Come on. Hustle." She was already crawling through an open window into a ground-floor apartment. Gavallan followed, slamming the window behind him, ripping the curtains closed. He was in a bedroom. It was neat. A nicely made-up single bed covered with a red top sheet. Posters of Los Angeles and Mexico City on the walls. A crib. A dresser with mirrored drawers.

Into the hallway. A shout. Gavallan found Cate in the front room, speaking feverishly to a young dark-haired woman cradling a baby on her lap. The woman stared at Gavallan with intense, frightened eyes. Smells of soup and burnt toast. Another instant and they were out the front door, walking briskly down a dim corridor.

Up the stairs. One flight. Two. Gavallan followed, too winded to ask any questions, happy to have someone else take the lead. After four stories, they reached the rooftop. The door was locked. Gavallan stepped past Cate, raised his leg, and kicked viciously at the handle. Wood splintered. The door flung open, rebounding on its hinges. Sunlight flooded the stairwell.

Cate ran to the edge of the roof and peeked her head over. Raising her arm, she signaled Gavallan back. He dropped to a crouch and eased himself toward the parapet. The seven men were gathered in the street. Arms gesticulated wildly. Raised voices drifted up to them. Then there was a screech of tires. A silver sedan rounded the corner, shuddering to a halt, disgorging four men.

"We can't wait here," said Gavallan, mopping the sweat from his eyes. "They're mustering an army down there."

Cate backed away from the precipice. Setting her hands on her hips, she looked first left, then right. "These apartments are built one next to the other. We can work our way along the roof. At the end of the block, we'll go downstairs and come out on the next street over."

They jogged across the rooftops, easily jumping the gaps between buildings, until they'd reached the end of the street. Lowering himself to his belly, Gavallan ventured a glance below. The men, now eleven in number, stood a hundred yards away, still congregated in the center of the street. An automobile approached from the other direction and made the mistake of honking at them. Immediately, one of the men broke off from the group and pounded savagely on the intruder's hood. A head came out the window. Words were exchanged. Several more of the secret policemen approached. In a moment, they had the driver out of the car and on the ground, and began kicking him.

"Now's our chance," said Cate. "Let's get down to the street."

"But we don't have a car."

"Don't worry," she answered, already moving toward the stairwell. "I'll get us one."

It's been a while since we've had an occasion to use this room," Bruce Jay Tustin began. "There's no need to mention that it's been a rough year, but boy, it's been a rough year! I guess it was natural, then, for the Mercury Broadband offering to pose some problems of its own. It wasn't the easiest deal to put together, but it's a testament to our professionals and to Mercury's solid management team that we were able to stay focused and surmount those obstacles, so that we're able to stand here among one another today."

"Here, here," murmured the assembly.

Tustin affected a modest stance, his pugilist's chin tucked into his collar. "Let me say that I'm not the one who should be giving this speech. That privilege belongs to another man, someone who for very grave reasons cannot be here today. For those of you who just flew in, I'd like to say that I don't know any more about Jett's whereabouts or his status than you do. I think it best that we offer him our prayers and keep the faith. I'm sure everything will turn out for the best."

Silence reigned as John J. Gavallan, the firm's founder, majority shareholder, and guiding spirit, was sent their prayers. But only for five seconds- then the voices began to swell again. Standing at once among and apart from the assembly, Kirov felt a violent tick in his brain. Enough of the preliminaries. It was time to get to the main event. What had they priced the damn security at?

Finally, Tustin clinked his glass one more time.

"They say 'All's well that ends well,' " he intoned. "And, ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you this evening with news that the Mercury Broadband deal will end very well indeed!" Pulling a note card from his jacket, he slipped on a pair of bifocals. "I don't need these, but I hear they make me look sexy," he said, to a chorus of groans. Then he read: "After a three-week road show that took our executives from Shanghai to Stockholm, from Pittsburgh to Peoria, and after a total of seventy-four investor meetings, I am happy to offer the following comments: The Mercury order book stands at forty times oversubscribed. We have an unprecedented thirty ten-percent orders. And on one-to-one meetings, we scored a cumulative hit ratio of ninety-two percent."

Translated, Tustin's words meant that they had orders for forty times as many shares as they would allocate. Thirty of their clients had asked to take as much of the offering as Black Jet would give them. And 92 percent of the firms with whom Mercury executives had met to pitch the offering had put in orders. By any measure, it was an extraordinary success.

So much for the Private Eye-PO, scoffed Kirov silently. So much for Baranov and Gavallan and even Katya. There would be no mourning any of them. They had brought their fates upon themselves. No one ever said empire building was without pain.

Tustin continued over the sustained hollering and applause. "I guess there's only one piece of information left to give you guys. For that, let me turn the floor over to Tony." He walked over to Llewellyn-Davies and gave him a big bear hug. "Two Names, you done good."